


oh, give no faith to show

by videcormeum



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Dance, Ballet, Case Fic, FBI Agent Will Graham, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Haphephobia, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse, Relationship(s), Romance, Team Sassy Science (Hannibal), Undercover, Will Graham & Beverly Katz Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29828757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/videcormeum/pseuds/videcormeum
Summary: “Try to relax your shoulders. Be one with your body, do not fight it.”Atoms separated them. Will swallowed. With a deep, steadying breath, he allowed his shoulders to drop. It felt better, the pull at his muscles easier. His chin lifted naturally. Projecting to the balcony.Hannibal smiled. “That’s good, Will.”Dancers are dying at a local ballet company. With local law enforcement convinced it's an inside job, promising FBI agent and ex-dancer Will Graham is sent undercover to investigate. When he meets renowned ballet dancer Hannibal Lecter, it becomes clear that the investigation will be anything but straightforward.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 38
Kudos: 144





	1. Ankle Sprains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> while perusing the tags, i found there's a distinct lack of hannigram ballet aus, so this is my attempt to remedy that. this has been in my docs for a while, so i decided to bite the bullet and post it. 
> 
> i haven't danced in years, so i'm sorry for any technical mistakes!
> 
> enjoy <3
> 
> title is from [blood by hozier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pwJ6FBfaR-I)

_“You came to me to learn the pleasure of life and the pleasure of art. Perhaps I am chosen to teach you something much more wonderful, the meaning of sorrow, and it’s beauty.” - Oscar Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas, 1986_

* * *

“You realize this is totally insane, right?”

Jack Crawford was not impressed. Will, stubbornly, did not shrink under the scrutiny of his gaze. Even when he leaned back in his big office chair and looked him over, he wasn’t half as threatening as he tried to be. The rumors about _the guru_ that were so often whispered in lecture halls and canteens didn’t so much as touch the real thing. Face to face, Agent Crawford was just a man.

Albeit, an extremely powerful man who’d put away some of recent history’s most heinous. But, regardless, just a man.

“I don’t see what the problem is, Agent Graham,” he said.

That was exactly the problem.

“Do you make a habit of sending trainees into the field?"

“I don’t,” Jack said, slowly, “but we need somebody with a specific skill set. I believe you have those skills.”

Will crossed his arms. He didn’t care if it made him look petulant. 

“I don’t know how well you understand ballet, Agent Crawford, but you can’t just… enter a company out of the blue. There are auditions, and training, and—”

 _“You_ can. I’ve seen you dance, Will. You’re very talented.”

They were on a first name basis now, apparently. Will ground his teeth.

“When I was twenty-five, maybe. I haven’t danced professionally in years.”

Jack rapped his thumbs on the side of his index finger thoughtfully.

“Well"—he leaned forward—“you’d better start practicing.”

Bedelia Du Maurier was an elegant woman with features that sloped delicately towards the pointed tip of her nose, giving her an almost birdlike appearance. Under her careful scrutiny, muscle memory threatened Will to stand in first position. The sharp eyes and words of past ballet teachers rolled up his spine and tugged his shoulder blades towards the floor. His posture hadn’t been this straight in months.

Her composed exterior refused to betray any of the panic that hung over the company, the knowledge that three bodies had been discovered on the property in the past two months didn’t appear to phase her. She crossed one slim thigh over the other, and her pointed toe almost dislodged her polished black shoe. It hung halfway off her foot, exposing her delicate ankle and the gentle curve of her heel.

“When Jack Crawford contacted me about an undercover agent joining our company, I had my reservations,”—she spoke slowly, deliberately, as if nursing each word— “however, the tragedy of losing so many of our own has far outweighed any… personal issues I may have with the situation.”

Her tone implied that Will’s response should have been _thank you._

“And what were those personal issues, Ms Du Maurier?”

 _“Madame_ Du Maurier. Our rigorous audition procedure ensures that egos are left at the door. As you are bypassing that process, I’m sure you can understand my concern about you — well — interrupting the balance, as it were.”

Will almost laughed.

“You don’t have to worry about that, _Madame_ Du Maurier. I assure you my ego is well and truly checked.”

He was grateful to be released from the confinement of her office at last when she led him down the grandiose hallway, lined with vaulted ceilings and paintings in golden frames, her heels clicking like a threat on the marble floor. He wondered if it was real, whether it would be smooth and cold to the touch.

A flurry of brunette hair spun into their orbit, a clipboard clutched in one hand and a red patent purse in the other. The woman’s smile was bright and dimpled, a nice contrast to Bedelia’s, and only faltered for a second when she saw him. 

“You must be our new soloist.” She shifted her belongings to one hand, as if she couldn’t decide where they should go, or whether she should shake his hand at all. “I’m sorry I’m late. I’m Alana, dancer representative. I’ll be taking care of you from here on out.”

“Well, then,” Bedelia said. “I will leave you in Alana’s capable hands.”

Alana didn’t seem to notice the distaste in her tone.

“Come on, if we walk fast you should make it to class on time.”

Her fingertips brushed his elbow. He shrugged her off. She barely blinked, although it was undoubtedly stored in her repertoire for later use: _Will Graham. Soloist. Weird about touching._

She explained each door that they passed as they headed down the hallway — _the auditorium is that way_ — _changing rooms are through that door_ — _PT is down there, the sign-up sheet is on the door_ — they rounded a corner, and her rambling ceased.

Crime scene tape still lingered at the edges of one of the doors they had come to. The unmistakable smell of bleach floated out into the hall. Blood might have still stained the floor inside — it inevitably would, unless the entire thing was replaced. Wood wasn’t very forgiving.

Alana pursed her lips. Her eyes flicked from the door to the floor, then to him. 

“You’ll be in Studio 1B today. Probably for most of your sessions, actually. It’s the biggest one we have, so…”

She had a habit of not planning her sentences before she started them, and trailing off before they were complete. It was an oddly comforting quirk. She pushed the door to studio 1B open, leaving the crime scene behind them.

The studio had the same vaulted ceilings and stark white walls as the hallway. Tight, practiced bodies were backlit by the large windows, silhouettes reflected in the mirrored wall. He was instantly aware of their eyes on him, sizing up the newcomer. There was a sense of innate distrust that was only natural after they’d lost three of their own.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. Alana smiled encouragingly.

Their collective attention was, thankfully, drawn away from him when a man breezed through the glass-paned doors on the other side. His sky-blue suit was inappropriate for a rehearsal studio, but impeccable nonetheless. He stopped just inside the doors and snapped his fingers at a male dancer pirouetting in the mirror.

“Mr Zeller. There is no need for a display; we are not peacocks, and it is not mating season.”

 _Zeller,_ a dark haired man with a scruff of facial hair, fell out of a pirouette and landed clumsily in fourth position. He flushed, and the accompanist sat at the piano chuckled, earning himself a middle finger for his trouble when Zeller stalked past him to the barre.

“Hannibal!” Alana called.

The well-dressed man’s stern, angled features softened when he saw her. Deliberate confidence rolled from the length of his step when he approached them to kiss her on the cheek. A European greeting, perhaps.

“Ms Bloom, what a pleasant surprise.”

“Well, I’m here for a reason,” she said, “this is Will, our new soloist. Will, this is our ballet master.”

Thankfully, he didn’t try to kiss Will’s cheeks, but offered a hand instead. His palm was large and flat, pale in the natural light. 

“Hannibal Lecter. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Will.”

Will kept his hands at his sides. Up close, Hannibal’s shirt had the faintest windowpane pattern.

Hannibal tucked his unshaken hand back into his pocket. 

“Not fond of eye contact, are you?”

Surprised, Will met his eyes. Eyes that were trained to pick up a sickled foot from a mile away, that could fix a drooping posture with a single look. He swore, if he looked close enough, that there were flecks of red in the deep brown of his irises.

He looked away.

“Too distracting.”

Hannibal hummed. His eyes narrowed a little. His pocket square matched his tie. 

“And I value concentration. I believe you and I will get along just fine.”

Alana cleared her throat. “Now that we’re all acquainted, I’ll make myself scarce. Have a good class.”

She slipped away easily, back out of the door they came from. Hannibal didn’t watch her go. Will felt that dark gaze stroking across his temple.

“Our company is not big, but we are close. I’m sure you will find your place quickly, and feel very at home here.”

“What do I do until then?”

A smile played at the hard line of Hannibal’s mouth. “How about a warm up?”

He glanced over his shoulder. Will followed his eyeline to a wall of stretched limbs and flexed muscles, conversations about the best protein supplements and a can of Diet Coke shared between three or four lithe-limbed girls. It was almost comforting to know that even this company wasn’t immune to slipping into cliche.

Zeller was stretching at the end of the barre, chatting easily with the accompanist who he appeared to have forgiven, and they watched as Will crossed to them. He set his bag down in the empty space beside Zeller, swapped out his jeans for sweatpants before he could feel embarrassed about being exposed in dance tights, and dropped to the floor to switch out his shoes.

“You keeping the flannel on?”

The boxed end of a pointe shoe landed just above his head, slung over the barre at the ankle. He watched the muscles of the owner’s calf flex beneath sheer fabric when she bent at the waist until her chin almost hit her knee. Her mouth slanted into a smirk, and impossible-to-pin wisps of dark hair fell behind her ears.

“Uh — yeah,” he said, “it’s cold in here.”

He slipped a finger under the elastic of his shoe to flatten it against his skin.

“Most of the guys just wanna show off their arms,” she said. Her speech had a natural intonation that bordered on sarcastic. A satisfyingly predictable rise-and-fall.

“Yeah, not me,” he said, “just came here to dance.”

Zeller scoffed, “That’s admirable.”

“Oh, fuck off, Brian.” She dropped her foot from the barre and followed it through until she bumped onto the floor, legs spread wide. The extended ends of her shoes made them look unnaturally long. “Ignore him, he’s a dick.”

Zeller grumbled, but didn’t retort.

Though her face seemed to fall naturally into a smirk, her full smile was kind and stunningly white. “You’re the new kid, right? I’m Beverly.”

He didn’t think he could exactly be categorized as a _kid,_ and he was definitely older than her. He nodded anyway. “Will.”

“Lecter seems to have taken a shine to you”—she nodded curtly towards the man, who was surveying the studio with his hands in his pockets—”that’s good; he’s not easy to please.”

“He hasn’t seen me dance yet.”

A week of tentative at-home practice couldn’t make up for years of dormancy. He would surely only be disappointed once he realised that Will’s technique was rusty at best.

Beverly stretched over her left leg until she could reach over her head and grab her ankle, and looked at him sideways.

“You must be good; they don’t take just anyone. Did you even audition?”

He shook his head. “I was actually, uh — I was retired. Madame Du Maurier saw my show-reel and asked me to join for this season.”

It didn’t even sound believable to him, but Beverly nodded as she straightened up. She stretched her lean arms up towards the ceiling, and then rolled back down until her chest was almost flat against the floor. 

“I get it,” she said through a long exhale. “I mean, _I_ wouldn’t turn down the chance to work with Lecter, even if I was retired.”

“What do you mean?”

She pushed up onto her forearms. “Anyone would kill to work with him. It’s why half of us are here.”

Will wasn’t sure how much class time they had, but Hannibal seemed content to let his dancers warm themselves up appropriately. Vague familiarity echoed in the cut of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, but Will had assumed that he just looked like a generic _dancer._

“You don’t know who he is, do you?”—at his blank expression, she lurched to get her phone from her bag—"Holy _shit,_ dude.”

She clicked around on her phone screen for a moment and pressed it into his hand. “Look.”

He blinked at the displayed Wikipedia page, adjusting to the screen’s brightness for a second.

The picture attached to the article showed a smiling, younger Hannibal cradling an oversized bouquet of flowers in his arms. His hair was darker, stuck to his slick forehead that was tinged with makeup and slightly overexposed under stage lights. He was smiling, wide and dazzling. He hadn’t changed much besides that.

 **Hannibal Lecter** _(born 20 January, 1980) is a Lithuanian-born classical ballet dancer. He was recognized by the New York Times as “the most sought after danseur noble in the industry”_ _[1]_ _after having held the position at the Bolshoi Ballet, The Paris Opera Ballet, The Royal Ballet and The American Ballet Theatre by the age of twenty-five._

Her reaction made sense now — it was an unbelievably impressive repertoire, and he hadn’t even scrolled to the career section.

He clicked on the video embedded on the page and watched a younger Hannibal walk out to the center of a dimly lit stage. He was beautiful, bordering on dangerous, unlike any Prince Siegfried Will had ever seen. Each leap and turn seemed to burst from his chest and explode mid-air, yet was executed with a careful level of control that Will recognized in the man across the room. Controlled, yet crazed. Perfect and deadly.

“Wonder if he can still do that,” Beverly said over his shoulder.

“I wonder.”

He locked her phone and slid it across the floor to her. She tucked it back into her bag just as Hannibal’s voice rang out.

“Good morning, everyone”—he didn’t have to raise his voice at all to grab their attention; he commanded the space like smoke—“first position at the barre, please.”

Beverly kicked her bag out of the way, and Will did the same before getting into position, right hand poised on the barre. In front of him, Zeller’s shoulder blades shifted beneath his skin as he rolled out his well-built limbs. He was _one of the guys who liked to show off their arms,_ it seemed.

“Hope you remember the basics,” Beverly muttered in Will's ear.

“Unlikely,” Will said, and her laugh grew quiet as she retreated back to her space.

The accompanist played a generic, pretty tune while Hannibal talked them through an easy barre routine. Beverly was right; it was _very_ basic. First position, _demi-plié,_ first position, _demi-plié._ Will focused on the gentle turn out of his legs, the space between his vertebrae growing and shifting. _Four counts, push up, roots sprouting from your heels._

Caught up in the hypnotic push-pull of muscles he hadn’t stretched in years, he almost forgot what he was there for. He glanced at the dancers following the same steady drop-rise. Nobody stood out in particular yet; they all fit the picture-perfect stereotype of long limbs and contoured muscles that strained imperceptibly as they straightened back to first position, and down again. Faceless bodies, designed for one purpose.

Fingertips brushed the base of Will’s spine. He jolted forward, landed a half-step behind Zeller, who cast a confused look over his shoulder. Will apologized quietly.

Hannibal tilted his head. His hand lingered where Will had been. “Is everything alright?”

“Fine.”

He waited for Hannibal to drop his hand to return to position. Dozens of eyes were on him, now, having disturbed the peace. He cleared his throat, returned his hand to the barre, put his heels together. The attention on him dwindled and slipped back to the task at hand.

“I was going to say that you looked tense,” Hannibal spoke very close to his ear, so that only he could hear. “Try to relax your shoulders. Be one with your body, do not fight it.”

His hand was almost on Will’s shoulder, hovering just above the plane of muscle. Atoms separated them. Will swallowed. He did not shrink away. With a deep, steadying breath, he allowed his shoulders to drop. It felt better, the pull at his muscles easier. His chin lifted naturally. _Projecting to the balcony._

Hannibal smiled. “That’s good, Will. _Grand-plié,_ please.”

The absence of his hand left Will cold.

He distantly heard Beverly exhale behind him, _“Jesus.”_

His face was hot. He shut his eyes against the feeling.

“How was class?”

Multiple dogs blanketed him when he dropped onto his small, beaten-up couch. It was second hand, and while bed bugs had been a fear for a while, it was convenient for dog hair purposes. Winston dug a paw full of claws into his thigh.

Jack had called him the moment he’d stepped through his front door and, although he was the last person Will wanted to speak to, he’d answered dutifully. He tapped his index finger against the back of his phone and sank his other hand into Max’s fur.

“It was fine.”

“Just ‘fine’?”

Will rolled his head back against the couch. “It’s gonna take more than one class to catch this guy.”

“I was hoping you’d have some idea,” Jack said. “What about the people? Who did you meet?”

Will had some opinions on the people, for sure, but he didn’t think _famous danseur noble Hannibal Lecter_ was who the unit chief wanted to hear about.

“Nobody suspicious. They’re all… delightfully normal.”

Jack’s sigh was cold water. “I’m not paying you for _normal,_ Will.”

“I’ll have something by the end of the week.”

The unit chief hummed. “Good. Happy dancing.”

His phone made a soft _thud_ when it hit the carpet, and he slumped to the side until his face hit the arm of the couch, finally allowing himself to be consumed by the weight of the day. One dog jumped onto his shoulder, and another took his legs hostage. Fur tickled his nose, but the feeling was familiar and soothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hannibal is pretty heavily based on rudolf nureyev, a russian dancer (and widely regarded as the best male dancer of his time) [here’s the swan lake solo that will watched](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=17Ak4MGYMvw), if you’re interested :))


	2. Achilles Tendonitis

_Pain pricks at the soft skin of his developing knees. He shifts uncomfortably, trying to relieve some of the pressure, and sharp fingernails press into the center of his spine. It forces his back straight and his knees down into the tray of rice._

_“No fidgeting,” his mother warns, “this is a lesson in self control. Does Anna Pavlova show weakness like you?”_

_He shakes his head. “No.”_

_“And you are weak, aren’t you?”_

_Tears burn his eyes. He can’t move his head to shake them away, so he blinks instead. They roll down his cheeks and pool in his collarbones. “Yes.”_

_“We will make you strong.”_

Air rushed into Will’s lungs and forced him upright. Touch lingered beneath his sweat-slick skin, reaching hands forcing their way out of his pores. He tore off his soaked shirt and threw it carelessly across the room, and did a few manic laps around it. Couch, front door, kitchen. Couch, front door, kitchen.

He raked his fingernails up his bare arms until the itching burn of memory subsided and he dropped, exhausted, onto the floor beside the couch. Harley whined at his right, and Winston tried to force his way between his knees. He opened his legs a little to let Winston into his lap, and buried his face in his mottled fur.

He forced himself to breathe more air than his lungs wanted to, and expelled it steadily. Eventually, his stomach settled, and his heart rate returned almost to normal. His face was sticky when he lifted his head and blinked into the murky light.

His phone was on the floor near him. He pressed the screen with one finger; it was just past four in the morning.

Winston made a soft noise, and butted at Will’s hand until he pushed it between his ears and scratched his head.

“Thanks, buddy.”

There was no hope of him getting back to sleep, so he left Winston to sniff around with the others and hauled himself to the bathroom. It was a dingy little room, making it near impossible to avoid the mirror as he turned the shower on.

It ran cold. Goosebumps rose like spikes from his skin. He pushed the gauge all the way up until steam rose from the water.

The ceiling would be steam-damp afterwards, but the hot spray felt good on his fatigued muscles as he scrubbed the sweat out of his hair and made a note to not make a habit of sleeping on the couch. Sleeping in foreign places gave him weird dreams, and he hadn’t eaten before he went to sleep. That was why it happened.

Despite his heat-pink skin, he felt desperately cold when turned the shower off.

Beverly was waiting for him outside studio 1B that morning. She handed him a cardboard coffee cup.

“You look like shit.”

“I didn’t sleep.”

The coffee was slightly too bitter for his taste, not enough cream or sugar, but it was a nice gesture. He hadn’t thought to get one on his way, and he considered the hypothetical outcome of that mistake as he sipped it.

“You’ll want it to kick in quick, then”—she pushed the door open with one shoulder—“you get to meet Chilton today.”

Chilton, as it turned out, was the choreography equivalent of an army general. Poised delicately in a plastic chair in the center of the mirrored wall, he spread one hand over a silver cane and the other on his knee as he watched the dancers stream in. Those who had already arrived were lined up obediently, awaiting instruction.

His gaze followed Beverly and Will across the studio to Zeller, who widened his eyes a little — _help me._ Beverly shook her head minutely. The silence bordered on painful. Will finished his coffee.

“I would like corps de ballet on stage right, soloists on stage left, and principals center,” Chilton announced once everyone was in front of him. Unlike Hannibal, who blended seamlessly with the environment, he seemed to slice right through it. His vowels were long and rounded, like they had been half-dipped in a British accent. “I would like it done _today,_ if you would be so kind!”

Beverly smiled at Will before she grabbed Zeller by the arm and dragged him to center, and Will trudged to stage left alone. The sprung floor squeaked below the company shuffling into position.

Will glanced to the side as the company settled. The principal group was four strong — including Beverly and Zeller — and the corps de ballet was even bigger. Yet, he was alone.

Of course he was; the other soloists were either dead or in a different company, having moved far away from the threat of a serial killer targeting their position.

Chilton’s steps were a steady beat punctuated by the sharp tap of his cane against the floor. He narrowed his eyes at Will, in a pale attempt at humiliation.

“And who might you be, my lone ranger?”

Will lifted his chin, mirrored Chilton’s narrowed eyes. If there was one thing he was good at, it was putting on a face.

"Your soloist.”

A note of amusement crossed Chilton’s expression. His gaze dropped to Will’s feet, and licked a judgmental line up to his face.

“It appears you are,” he almost sang, “well, I suppose you will make an… okay Mercutio.”

Whispers erupted from the company. Rumor hit the walls and dripped down the mirrors. Chilton’s gaze lingered on Will’s face for a brief moment, gauging his response, and then he turned sharply towards the rest of the company.

“Silence, please! Yes, you heard me correctly. The company board has decided that our production for the summer will be Shakespeare’s classic _Romeo & Juliet. _I will be interpreting Kenneth MacMillan’s original choreography…”

“And you will do it brilliantly, I’m sure.”

Hannibal didn’t quite lean against the door frame, but his shoulder brushed it as he entered. A brown wool overcoat covered today’s suit, but the smallest sliver of dark blue fabric peeked out near his collar. The studio breathed a sigh of relief. Balance was restored, at last.

The choreographer took a step back, a sharp little sound on the floorboards.

“Master Lecter”—Chilton smiled, false—“you’re late.”

“You’re early,” Hannibal replied lightly. _On the contrary._ “I see you got started without me.”

The corner of Chilton’s mouth twitched. “I was warming them up.”

“By all means, continue.”

Hannibal waved his hand, a subtle twist of his wrist, and lowered himself into Chilton’s vacated chair. He crossed one leg over the other without theatricality, and grazed two fingers over the dark knee of his pants.

Chilton cleared his throat. “As I was saying: we will be holding a short audition today to assess your positions. Master Lecter will take you through the choreography this morning, and this afternoon you will formally audition.”

The company once again descended into whisper, and Chilton didn’t interrupt this time. Hannibal rose silently. He skimmed his fingers down the front of his coat, slipped each tortoiseshell button through the fabric with great care and folded it onto the chair. He turned towards the mirror to slip his blazer off, revealing the true expanse of his broad shoulders. The promise of tan skin beneath a crisp white shirt and the remaining waistcoat.

He met Will’s gaze in the mirror. The corner of his mouth tilted up.

Chilton hailed the corps de ballet into the center of the room with his cane, used more like an accessory than a walking aid, and shucked the rest of them to the perimeter to watch. Will hovered uncomfortably near the piano and watched him stalk around the room like a lion circling prey, until Beverly cleared her throat. 

She patted the empty spot on the floor next to her and he sank down, the wooden floor hard and cold beneath him.

“Chilton’s always like that,” she assured him as she slid extra pins into her hair, “you’ll get used to him.”

“Or you’ll quit,” Zeller said, taking a spot opposite Beverly. He took a long pull from a clear water bottle and yelped when she kicked him in the side.

The waiting corps de ballet seemed to relax when Chilton retreated to the corner to watch them. Hannibal left his shoes beneath the chair with his blazer and coat, and padded across the floor in dark grey socks.

His face was serene as he slowly broke the choreography down. Some of the dancers mirrored his movements, and others watched in rapt awe. It was clear, even when blocking simple audition choreography, that the solid lines of his body were made for this. He walked it through once, and stood back to watch them repeat it. He gave no reaction other than a minuscule twitch of his upper lip when two of the girls nearly collided, and gestured for them to do it again. And again.

When they were done, chests heaving and cheeks exertion-pink, Hannibal nodded.

“Very good. I would like to see the soloists next, please.”

Chilton turned on Will with a stuffy smile. He turned his hand over once, palm down and then up. Will pushed himself to his feet.

Passing amusement crossed Hannibal’s face when Will placed himself in front of him and tilted his chin up, towards Hannibal’s nose. 

“Is it just you?” Hannibal asked.

Will didn’t glance around. He knew that it was. “It seems so.”

This was the polar opposite of _blending in._ He wondered what Jack would say if he knew. He didn’t think he cared.

“Mr Price,” Hannibal called. The sleepy accompanist straightened up. “Could I have Mercutio’s Variation, please?”

Price nodded, flipping through his music, “Coming right up, boss.”

Over the fluttering of pages, Hannibal took a step closer. Without his shoes, he scraped two or three inches taller than Will.

“In this variation, Mercutio acts as a distraction. He’s dizzying, beautiful — you couldn’t take your eyes off him if you tried.”

From what Will could recall, Mercutio was none of those things. Most directors played this variation as gaudy, comedic relief, a break from the endless tragic romance and an excuse for the audience to laugh. Hannibal’s sober expression didn’t warrant this interpretation.

“From fourth position. A set of _fouetté en dedans,_ working leg _a la seconde,_ into a simpler _pirouette en dedans._ Land in a semi-lunge.”

He made no move to give Will an example, like he had for the corps de ballet. His face betrayed a kind of hopeful trust that Will knew he didn’t deserve. He cycled through the repertoire of movements and obscure French terms ingrained deep in his muscle memory, and hoped that he landed on the right ones.

“Got it.”

“Good”—Hannibal took a step back, giving him a wide berth—“the floor is yours, dear Will.”

_Dear Will._

Price gave him eight counts. His heels hit the floor on the third and fourth — right foot a step in front of the left. Arms poised on six. Deep breath. Seven. _Demi-plié._ Eight.

_Dear Will._

His front leg came down hard, just about brushing the floor. Any harder and he would have stumbled. Jump, half-turn. Back leg up, as close to horizontal as he could get it — _arabesque._ Smoke clouded the mirror when he turned. Toe to ceiling. Down. Half-turn. _Arabesque._ Again.

_Dear Will._

Fourth position, heels to floor. Shoulders dropped. _Pirouette._

_Dear Will._

Mirror. _Pirouette._

_Dear Will._

Mirror. _Pirouette._

_Dear Will._

Fourth position, carried through. Knee not quite to the floor. Fire spread through the backs of his thighs.

Hannibal smiled.

He called Jack outside the studio. It rang twice.

“Will, is everything alright?”

His stomach hurt, a deep aching pain that gnawed at his navel. He leaned back against the wall and listened to muffled piano bleeding out of the windows. The Juliets were dancing. He was dizzy. He was still spinning.

“Will?”

He dug his fingers into his thigh until it hurt more than the stomach ache.

“I — uh… I don’t actually know why I called.”

The line was silent for a long moment.

“Did you find something?” Jack asked, eventually.

Smoke clouding a mirror. Eyes encouraging muscle strain. Dear Will.

“No.”

“Alright…” Jack said, slowly. “Well, let me know if you do.”

Will hung up first. He dropped his head back against the wall and his hair caught on exposed brick.

A man wandered past, holding two violins by their delicate necks. The shoulders of his jacket fell too far out. He glanced at Will, and Will studied the way his pants drooped at the ankles, how the fabric bunched up around his shoes.

This killer could step in and out of personalities like well-fitted suits. He switched out the fabrics and the styles to cater to his exact needs. If he did it well enough, he could sit in the audience of the performance he created and watch as they danced around the evidence he’d left behind. Just enough to trigger a chase, not enough to get caught.

It wasn’t Chilton, he knew that. Chilton would have his own box in that morbid theater.

_Dear Will._

“Holy _shit,_ Will”—Beverly came out of the studio, followed closely by Zeller, and mopped her forehead with her jacket—“you were incredible!”

She seemed to be just about restraining herself from jumping all over him. Will stepped back, putting distance between them.

Zeller, surprisingly, nodded along, “You’re good, Graham.”

 _“Good?”_ Beverly parroted. “Lecter looked about ready to kiss him, are you serious? God, Will, _I_ could have kissed you.”

Will grimaced. “Please don’t.”

The accompanist, Price, emerged from the studio next. He tucked a crudely curled-up music folder into the deep pocket of his jacket and looked at Zeller expectantly. “Are you ready to go? Chilton wants me back in an hour.”

Zeller turned to Beverly and, surprisingly, opened his expression out to Will. An offering.

“We’re gonna get lunch, if you wanted to join?”

It was the last thing Will wanted to do.

Beverly looked at him patiently. If he turned it down, she would inevitably do the same and keep him company instead. She would be content either way. They all would. Even the accompanist and his vaguely pinched expression.

If anything, he could get something to tell Jack.

“Sure”—he nodded—“I’d like that.”

The tapas restaurant was within walking distance of the studio. Price and Zeller walked ahead, having a fevered discussion which involved a lot of expressive gestures, and Beverly fell into step beside Will. They didn’t talk, but she gave him the impression that she didn’t expect him to. Companionable silence was enough for them both.

A peppy waitress led them to a dark wood table in the corner of the restaurant, lit with dim lamps that surrounded them with an orange-yellow glow. They laughed and joked as they ordered their drinks, comfortable in the dim light, but Will fingered the menu uncertainly. Beverly noticed.

“We don’t have to order,” she assured him. “Jimmy comes here all the time.”

The accompanist in question looked up from his own menu, squinting a little. “When you live with someone who exclusively eats _kale_ you sometimes don’t have a choice.”

Zeller dipped his head, “Maybe _you_ should learn to cook.”

They descended into bickering, and Beverly just gave him an apologetic look. 

A waitress laid out a series of multicolored bowls and slate platters across the table. She explained what each of them was — mostly for Will’s benefit — but the words meant nothing to him.

Beverly ripped off a piece of ciabatta and swept it in a small bowl of oil, grinning as she popped it easily in her mouth. Will pushed a finger through the condensation on his glass.

She moved the bowl towards him. “Eat, it’s good.”

The bread was warm to the touch. He mirrored what she did, ripping off a smaller piece and dipped it in the oil. It ran down the side of his hand as he brought it to his mouth.

She was right: it was really good. She smiled proudly, and that was good too.

“So, newbie, what do you think of Chilton?” Zeller asked. He piled food onto his plate easily, something from every bowl.

Will shrugged. He couldn’t exactly tell them that his most pressing thought about the man was that he _probably_ hadn’t murdered anybody.

Beverly speared a cube of potato with her fork and picked up the conversation with deft ease. 

“I still think the cane’s fake.”

“Oh, it definitely is,” Price agreed.

She leaned forward, as if letting Will in on a secret, “He had some injury while he was at the ABT and never made principal. I reckon the cane is to stop him from feeling embarrassed about it.”

“The world is his stage, he needs a prop,” Will supposed.

Price and Zeller glanced at him, surprised. The dark grain of the table was almost deep enough to split apart. 

He took a sip of water, but it made his mouth feel heavy and dry.

“What about Lecter?” 

“What about him?” Zeller asked.

He didn’t know what he wanted to hear about Hannibal. Everything, perhaps. Maybe nothing. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked.

“Why is he working at a local company?” he settled on eventually. “He could have worked anywhere. He’s probably rich enough to retire.”

“Bedelia,” Zeller said, like an explanation, “she worked at the American Ballet at the same time he did. They did, like, fifty shows together.”

He could imagine it. The grainy half-image of a younger Hannibal lifting Bedelia with ease. Perhaps she had been easier when she was younger, less severe. Maybe he’d seen something in her then that spurred him to leave his career behind now.

“Are they together?”

They all looked at him.

Beverly spoke first, after a loaded moment, “No. Lecter wanted in when she took over the company. He actually convinced her to name it after herself.”

“I think they hate each other,” Price said thoughtfully. “They’re always speaking in bitchy metaphors. Like well-educated cats.”

Their voices faded into white noise. Will didn’t know why he felt so relieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i took quite a few creative liberties just to make it sound better, but [here's a version of the solo that will performs for his audition](https://youtu.be/MALa8HxDyeA?t=2581), if you want an idea of what it looks like! (starts at 43:01)


	3. Snapping Hip Syndrome

_Water drips from his cropped curls, down his nose in freezing rivulets. It’s in his mouth, his ears, and when he coughs he feels it in his throat. He wraps his arms around his rouged knees and hides his face in them. He has never been so cold._

_A hand slips under his chin and tilts it up. His mother’s eyes are as grey as the bathroom tile._

_“Cold water keeps your muscles strong.”_

_“It hurts.”_

_She tilts her head a fraction, and pushes his curls back with one damp palm. “I wouldn’t have to do this if you would take your cold showers like I asked.”_

_“I don’t like it,” he grits through chattering teeth._

_She clicks her tongue and loops one sodden curl around her finger. Over and over._

_“You will just have to learn to deal with it, then, won’t you?”_

Studio 1B was empty. Will stared at the piece of paper crudely stuck to the door until the words blurred:

**10AM CLASS CANCELLED.**

It didn’t make sense. Surely Beverly would have told him, if she thought there was a chance he didn’t know. He trawled the depths of his memory of this morning for the exact point which had led him here, and came up empty besides vague flashes of his mother. A cold shower. He shivered. There were no missed calls on his phone.

“Will?”

Hannibal’s expression fell somewhere between confusion and concern, though it evened out to indifference as he came closer. His suit of the day was light brown, the same coat slung over one arm.

Will attempted to sound innocuous, “Master Lecter.”

“Please, just Hannibal”—he glanced at the door—“I suppose you didn’t realize that class was cancelled?”

The bold letters mocked him again. He wanted to rip the paper down.

“I guess not.”

Hannibal hummed. 

“Since you’re here, perhaps you would like to join me for breakfast?”

Will searched his face for some sign that he was joking, but his expression only betrayed an unequivocal sincerity. His entire body rejected that, and his reaction was knee-jerk.

“Are you gonna take me for tapas, too?”

For once, Will wasn’t the one to break the eye contact. Hannibal directed a short — near self-conscious — laugh towards his shoes.

“I prefer to cook for myself. We can eat here, if you’d like.”

“In the hallway?”

“I was suggesting the studio, but I suppose…”

Hannibal glanced around. Will didn’t miss the queasy quirk of his mouth when he thought about sitting on the floor to eat.

“The studio’s fine. I — we don’t have to eat on the floor.”

A short exhale betrayed Hannibal’s relief. “Lead the way.”

The studio seemed exponentially bigger empty. Every usually occupied corner was lit by sunlight, illuminating the bright walls. Will stood awkwardly near the mirrors as Hannibal set about preparing a space for them to eat. 

“I’m afraid it will be a makeshift dining experience today,” Hannibal explained as he lowered the lid of the grand piano and pulled up two chairs.

Price would have been irate if he knew they were using the piano as a table, and Will smiled a little thinking about what his angry face would look like. Something like an unhappy guinea pig, probably.

It was a little high to be a comfortable table, so Will tucked his right foot beneath himself on the chair while Hannibal took two tupperwares out of his briefcase. He was oddly prepared for such a spontaneous invitation.

“Do you always do this?”

“I am very careful about what I eat,” Hannibal answered easily, “I always bring my own meals.”

He popped the lid of one of the containers and pushed it over. The next thing out of the bag was a set of silver cutlery which he placed delicately next to Will’s hand. Will flipped the fork between his fingers.

“I meant eating with your dancers.”

“Ah,” Hannibal said. "No, I don’t. You were in luck today, I brought extra.”

“For someone?”

He didn’t know why he asked. Hannibal set a large metal Thermos down on the piano and moved his bag to the floor.

“For a student of mine.”

He filled the Thermos’ lid and offered it out. Will took it, and sipped the coffee carefully. It was delightfully warm, though teasing bitter.

“So you _do_ eat with your dancers.”

“A student. She’s a very promising young woman. A… surrogate daughter, almost.”

His eyelashes cast long shadows across his pale cheeks. Will spun his fork around in his hand.

“I guess you’re worried about her, with the murders.”

Hannibal nodded. “I admit, I started bringing her food between classes so that I could keep an eye on her. Although it would appear she believes that eating with an old man isn’t, well, _cool.”_

He gestured to the food between them, untouched by its intended recipient. Will considered that for a moment, and studied Hannibal’s face for a suggestion of how to reply.

When he didn’t find any hints, he decided on a simple, “You’re not old.”

There was about a decade between them, although Will probably would have guessed less had he not read the Wikipedia article that placed Hannibal around forty. Hannibal smiled again, to himself, and his gaze landed on the fork in Will’s hand, unused.

“Eat, or it will get cold.”

It was a fairly simple meal: chunks of sausage lying in a bed of scrambled egg. Salad leaves hiding beneath it all. The fork pierced the skin of the sausage easily, and he watched Hannibal’s expression as he ate. A pleased little smile, really not more than a subtle tilt of his mouth betrayed mostly by his eyes, which were soft and supportive.

“It’s good,” Will said. It was more than good; far better than anything he could have cooked for himself. “Thank you.”

Hannibal tilted his head humbly. “You’re welcome, Will.”

Will liked the way that Hannibal said his name. He squirmed a little against the realisation of that, untucking his leg from beneath himself and switching to sit on his left ankle instead. His hips would usually groan under the stretch, but his joints had being feeling looser, easier, since that first class. He’d liked the way Hannibal had said his name then, too.

He filed that away for later. Much later.

A short, sharp knock on the door that led outside interrupted the companionable silence. Hannibal flicked through a number of expressions — as if trying them on — before settling on placid confusion. Just the smallest hint of a crease in the middle of his brow.

Another knock, more insistent, and another.

“Just a moment,” Hannibal said.

He folded the napkin in his lap, placed it neatly beside his cutlery and did up a single button on his blazer when he stood to open the door. Sunlight illuminated the high points of his face, the contour of his nose and cheeks and jaw, as he once again cycled through expressions.

“Franklyn,” he said, still not settled, “what are you doing here?”

Will leaned as far back as the hard plastic chair allowed him to, and caught just a wisp of dark hair past the doorjamb.

“Mr Lecter!” came another voice. “I didn’t realize you were here today.”

“Evidently, you realised.”

There was a distant edge to Hannibal’s voice that Will didn’t recognize. Playing at humor but holding it at arm’s length like an angry cat, clawing at his wrists and biting his fingers.

“I did,” the man — _Franklyn_ — said. “I was just passing by, and I heard your voice in here, so I thought I’d say hi.”

Hannibal’s responding smile was terse and polite. “You’re aware that I don’t believe that, aren’t you, Franklyn?”

Nervous laughter. A beat of tense silence. And then, “Who were you talking to?”

“A friend. We were just having breakfast”—Hannibal gestured towards Will—“would you care to join us?”

It was a strained question, asked out of politeness rather than genuine invitation. Will sipped his coffee.

“I really shouldn’t…” came the response, and Hannibal’s shoulders dropped visibly in relief.

He didn’t consider the validity of Franklyn’s answer for even a moment. “Very well, then. Goodbye, Franklyn.”

“Are you sure you don’t…”

Hannibal was already walking back to their makeshift picnic. He cleared his throat before he sat down again, took another bite of his food and waited patiently for Franklyn’s retreating footsteps.

“I apologize for the interruption,” he said, once he was gone.

Will shook his head. “Don’t be.”

He politely bated the curiosity that scratched at his ankles, and took measured sips of coffee until Hannibal spoke again.

“Franklyn is a… committed fan of my work. He seems to have made a habit out of tracking me down.”

Not long ago, there was a guest lecture at the academy about celebrities and their ‘over-familiar’ fans. Will recalled the blood spatter as if he’d been at the crime scene himself.

“A stalker?”

“That might be the most appropriate term.” Hannibal dipped his head. “He hasn’t yet found my home, so perhaps next time we could do this somewhere more private.”

Will blinked. “There’s a next time?”

“Yes,” Hannibal said — _of course._ “I would like to get to know who you really are, outside of this space.”

“I’m not much different.”

Hannibal set his fork down. “We all have something hiding beneath our skin, waiting to be unleashed. Dancing is about taming that beast, and learning to work with it. These walls can, in a sense, act as a cage.”

He gestured around them, to the bare walls. The high ceiling. The mirrors. The clear, open windows that invited in the ambiance from outside, that allowed their conversation to seep out into the streets of Baltimore. Will breathed steadily.

“And you would like to unleash me?”

“In a sense,” Hannibal said. “I would like to see you unleashed.”

A rusty metal key slipped against Will’s gloves when he fumbled it out of his pocket, and the ancient lock groaned with exertion. He jammed his shoulder into the wood, and very nearly ended up sprawled on the floor of Studio 1B. He steadied himself, and got a look around the empty studio. In the evening darkness, him alone, it resembled Hannibal’s _cage_ much closer than it did in the day.

A service light from the hallway cut through the murky darkness and cast an off-yellow square of light on the floor. Will followed it to the door, which opened much easier than the one that he had used to enter.

In the past few days, the last remnants of crime scene tape had been removed from the doorway of Studio 1A, the white walls repainted where they had been tarnished. He pushed the door gently, and it creaked open, allowing light to stream into the dark. He saw his own reflection in the mirror opposite, surrounded by stark cleanliness.

It all felt… less. Less raw. Less real. Less like a brutal murder happened here less than two weeks before.

The studio was considerably smaller than the other, with only one point of entry. 

_This is the hardest studio to access. I am willing to risk being caught to display her here. It is important to me that she is found here._

There were no dark patches or stains in the wood where the body had been; the entire floor had been replaced in a matter of days. He flipped open the folder that he’d brought and pushed his glasses up his nose. The crime scene photos sat on top of everything else, printed on cold, glossy paper. He held the first one up until it lined up with the windows. Returning Cassie Boyle to the scene.

_She leaves the studio late every night, after everyone but the janitors have left. This gives me opportunity. I know when she will be alone._

Her body was suspended between the windows, hanging from near-invisible wire. She was naked. Posed in _arabesque._ The skin of her back had been torn away and warped to look like wings, suspended above her working leg. She was Odette. The _black swan._

_Making principal is all that matters to her. It matters more than her livelihood. More than her life. She’ll make it to principal, but not in this life. I can help her make it._

_Dear Will._

He blinked hard, and found his own eyes in the mirror. The spot where Cassie Boyle had been was to his left, over his shoulder. She could have been poised there, like the devil.

A shadow appeared over his right shoulder. He turned towards it.

There was a woman in the doorway.

She held a camera in one hand, nearly obscured behind her purse, and fiery copper ringlets were barely contained under a wool hat. He didn’t think he’d seen her before, but he didn’t doubt his mind’s ability to create a new face. If she was a hallucination, she was as good as real.

“Who are you?” he asked.

She took a step forward. He took a step back. She stopped.

“I think a better question would be who are _you?”_

“I’m—”

Her eyes flicked down. He followed them to the photographs trapped between his thumb and the file. There was no way to deny why he was there.

“Freddie Lounds,” she said, eventually. “I’m a critic. You might know my blog: the Tattler?”

He didn’t. She nodded, realizing. “Well. Let me warn you, then. I’d be careful, if I were you.”

“Careful about what?”

“Snooping around here. You might find some things you don’t like.”

His mouth was dry. “What kind of critic are you?”

“A good one”—she glanced at the file again—“far better than you are an FBI agent, by any means.”

“Who said I was FBI?” he said, a last-ditch attempt.

She laughed, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret. Just… think about my warning.”

She didn’t look back at him when she turned out of the room, and let the door swing shut behind her. Its resounding slam deafened him.

It all felt wrong, the morning after the critic.

He had never felt so out of place. Everybody’s eyes were on him, he was sure of it, even as he clutched the straps of his bag and dipped his head. They all knew. His cover was blown.

“Will!”

Beverly’s wave from the other side of the studio didn’t seem like the wave of somebody who knew his secret. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, noticing his shaky smile as he got closer.

“Fine,” he said, though Cassie Boyle lingered at the back of his mind. The black swan. Coiled red hair. A camera.

Hannibal swept in a moment later, and Will found that he could breathe again under his steady instruction. The routine of class — barre to center to corners, Hannibal’s accent guiding them all the way — lulled him into an easy sense of security. Removal of choice allowed him a sense of anonymity, and after a while nobody was looking at him anymore. Freddie Lounds no longer stood at the corner of the room. Cassie Boyle was not spinning on his shoulder.

After, he sat on the floor, patting sweat off his neck and tentatively sharing a bottle of water with Beverly as they both cooled down. He normally wouldn’t share, but she was careful to avoid their hands colliding as they passed it between them, and he couldn’t realistically refuse that kindness.

“Uh oh.”

He barely had to look up to know what she meant. Bedelia seemed to change the atmosphere of the room. As graceful as a feline, she walked as if on a tightrope across the front of the studio, and placed a hand on Hannibal’s elbow to whisper something in his ear. She was much shorter than him, even in her high heels. He tucked a hand over hers and leaned in to hear her whisper.

Will swallowed, and passed the water bottle back to Beverly.

“Front of the room, please.”

That was Bedelia. Beverly sighed above him, and he pushed himself to his feet.

They stood in an orderly line in front of the mirrors, and Will watched the grain on the floor as Bedelia crossed her arms delicately. Everything she did was delicate, measured, as if moving through water.

“We have officially finalized our cast,” Bedelia said. “When Master Lecter calls your name, you will step forward.”

You _will._ Not a question. An order.

Hannibal smiled cordially at her, and began to list the corps de ballet.

Dancers stepped forward and were dismissed, whispering a little as they headed back to their spaces around the room. Excited chatter for what was to come. 

“This is no surprise”—Hannibal paused, smiled just a little—“Will.”

Will felt a little, ridiculous thrill when he stepped forward. He was the first person that Hannibal had called using only his first name.

Hannibal extended a hand towards him, “Our Mercutio.”

It was expected. Exactly the diagnosis that Chilton had given him with one look. Apparently, it still deserved the scattered applause the company had awarded to everyone as they were called. Beverly grinned at him, supportive and kind, and he looked at his feet and tried not to think about Jack.

Unlike the corps de ballet, he was not sent to the back of the room after he was cast. He stood there, breathing steadily, as Hannibal called Zeller forward. _Tybalt._

 _Benvolio._ “Nicholas Boyle.”

 _Paris._ “Antony Dimmond.”

 _Rosaline._ “Chiyoh Murasaki.”

 _Romeo._ “Randall Tier.”

A lithe-limbed, sharp-faced young man stepped forward, pride and excitement barely contained on his face. He stood in third position, shoulders back and out. Will self consciously adjusted his own posture, and caught Zeller doing the same.

_Juliet._

There was only one person left in the line. The room thrummed with muted anticipation as Beverly took a preemptive half-step forward. 

Hannibal nodded. “Beverly Katz. Our Juliet.”

She grinned from ear-to-ear, unable to contain her excitement as Randall Tier had. Happiness bled from her and filled Will with vicarious warmth. He wished he could hug her, as Zeller did, as Randall did, but he stood back and applauded instead. He smiled at her over Zeller's shoulder, and glanced at his feet, at Hannibal.

Hannibal stared back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's what she deserves !!


	4. Metatarsal Fractures

Will heard the dogs first. Paws skittering across wooden floors. Harley’s guttural, defensive bark. He emerged from the kitchen just as Max and Buster decided to join in, barking at a blurry silhouette behind the frosted glass. Winston growled low in his throat, and Will pushed him gently out of the way to unlatch the door.

Alana Bloom smiled at him from the porch. She didn’t stand back, like most people did.

“Hi, Will. I didn’t realize how far out you lived.”

“Yeah”—Max butted purposefully at his knee, nearly making it buckle—“sorry, let me just— uh…”

He did his best to prevent curious noses and paws from getting out and bombarding her on the front porch.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t mind dogs.”

“Honestly, Ms Bloom”—he blocked Ellie from sneaking between his legs—“they’re not used to new people. There are seven of them. It’ll be…”

“Ah, I see.”

She took a step back as he fought through the dogs to slip out of the door, and trapped them all in the house behind him. The cold bit at his skin, and he realised absently that he hadn’t put pants on before he’d answered the door. She politely didn’t mention his boxers, or the threadbare hole in the front of his sweater. 

“A delivery”—she held a wad of paper out between them—“your contract.”

“Contract?” He took it from her. It was heavy in his hands. “Have you spoken to Madame Du Maurier about this?”

“You need a contract if you’re going to dance, Will.”

It occurred to him, suddenly, that she didn’t know why he didn’t need it. Only Bedelia knew. To Alana, he was just another dancer in her flock. He looked down at his address on the front page and heard Jack’s voice in his head. _Keeping up appearances._

“Yeah, I know.”

“It might seem like a lot to process, but it’s in your best interest,” she said. “It outlines days off, rehearsal standards, performance hours, makes sure that Hannibal isn’t making you dance more than you can physically handle.”

He noted how she called him _Hannibal,_ instead of _Master Lecter._

“I don’t think he’d do that.”

She smiled. Her patent shoes were scuffed at the toes. “It’s just to keep you safe. Which also happens to be my job, so...”

It was more than he could say for the FBI. Jack Crawford had never showed up at his door wielding a union contract. Even when he’d thrown him into the field without warning.

“I’ll sign it,” he said. “Thanks.”

“No worries. You can call me Alana, by the way.”

“Right. Do you want a coffee? Since you came all this way.”

“Sure,” she said, pleasantly surprised at the invitation, “though, it’s really no problem.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

He pushed the door open, and the dogs tumbled out onto the porch. She laughed — all flushed cheeks and pleasant white teeth — and lowered a hand for them to sniff at. They calmed as they got used to her scent, assessing her as no threat, and let her follow him into the house.

He headed straight to the kitchen and let her poke around, taking in the warm coziness of his living room. He took the cafetiere down from a shelf — he usually settled for instant, but he figured she had better taste.

“You have a beautiful home,” she called from the living room. “How long have you lived here?”

“About a year,” he called back. When he glanced over his shoulder, she was in the doorway. “Do you take sugar?”

“One. What made you move all the way out here?”

“I used to live with a friend in the city, and then she—” he paused, reassessed—“she had to move home. This place was cheap, and quiet. Nature’s always agreed with me more than the city did, anyway. I never connected to concrete and subways.”

“Maybe more people should be like you. There might be less pollution.”

“Maybe,” he chuckled. 

She was quiet for a long moment.

“My wife would love this place.”

“Your…” He glanced at her. The gold band on her ring finger reflected the low light. “Ah.”

She studied him. “Does that bother you?”

“No.” He carefully distributed the coffee into two mugs, careful not to spill any. “It would be, uh… pretty hypocritical of me if it did.”

A pleasant sort of surprise crossed her face. Mutual realization, and acceptance. It was a nice feeling, even just in passing. He handed her a mug. She sipped from it steadily as he flicked through the contract.

It didn’t mean much to him. He didn’t care what it said. He signed where she pointed, and slid it across the counter to her.

“Mr Graham”—she lifted her mug between them—“you are now a soloist with the Du Maurier Ballet Company. Officially.”

“Officially,” he agreed. It was sealed with a _clink_ of ceramic.

She smiled behind the rim of her mug, and reached into her coat pocket. 

“I have something else for you, too.”

“You’re spoiling me, Ms Bloom.”

“Alana.”

“Alana.”

She set an envelope down on the counter, just beside the contract, and her empty mug beside that. He smoothed a finger over the careful lettering on the front. His name, in black ink that swirled like water.

“I should get going.” She tapped the envelope. “Remember to RSVP.”

He led her out, keeping the dogs out of her way, and watched her car trundle back down the driveway and disappear behind the treeline. With nothing to keep them, the dogs lost interest and padded back to their beds. He locked the door and headed back to the kitchen.

The envelope was smooth and thick between his fingers, folded meticulously and held closed with a dark red wax seal.

A _wax seal._ He pushed his thumb over the stamped pattern. He’d never had a wax sealed letter before. He slipped a finger under the fold in the paper and pried it up, careful not to tear it.

Black ink sloped across the page in the same elegant, looping script as on the envelope.

_Mr Will Graham,_

_Mr Hannibal Lecter requests the pleasure of your company for dinner._

_Friday, April 12, at 7 P.M._

_5 Chandler Square, Baltimore._

The final letter bled into the paper, just a little. Will smoothed his thumb over the spot. His hands looked clumsy and wrong against Hannibal’s neat script. That was, given it was _Hannibal’s_ script. He wouldn’t have put it past the man to have a secretary or personal assistant to write out his invitations for him.

Who sent out _handwritten invitations?_

“What did it say again?”

Will breathed, and felt his ribcage lift up a little from the floor. The foam roller under his hips shifted. 

“‘Mr Hannibal Lecter requests the pleasure of your company for dinner’. A date. His address.”

“The _pleasure_ of your company…” Beverly repeated thoughtfully. “So, he asked you out?”

He looked at her with one eye, the other covered by his arm. 

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not!”

He retreated to the comfortable darkness of his own elbow. “It’s not — it isn’t that.”

“It _sounds_ like that. Do your shoulders now.”

“Okay, mom.”

He moved the roller up so that it lay comfortably just below his shoulder blades. As she’d instructed, he planted his feet firmly on the floor and used his knees and hips to push himself over it. It was hardly a replacement for a massage — as it claimed to be — but it released some of the tightness in his upper back.

“What are you gonna wear?”

“Uh—” he paused. It had been two days since the letter, and he hadn’t thought about it much past _what_ and _how_ and _I’m not going._ “I have a pair of dress pants I wore to a wedding once.”

“Are they ironed?”

He frowned. “Do I look like someone who doesn’t iron their clothes?”

“Do you want the honest answer?”

Probably not. He pushed the roller over his mid-back and up again. His spine popped, and he sighed at the release of tension that spread to his nape.

“Don’t look now,” Beverly said quietly.

Will raised his head and, sure enough, Hannibal had arrived. He sat up, fairly sure his back had seized up again.

“I have no idea how to dress myself.”

Miriam sighed. Even on his phone screen, her unimpressed gaze was icy.

“Yes, you do,” she said. “Show me the last shirt again.”

He shucked the shirt he was wearing and let it drop to his bedroom floor. The last one was still on its hanger — a feat amongst the mess, and a testament to the shirt itself — and shrugged it on. His fingers slipped on the buttons, but he had it done up eventually.

When he was done, he did a slow spin. 

“What do you think?”

“I like it. Undo the top button.”

He did so. “Better?”

“Perfect. You clean up good, Graham.”

He hadn’t exactly _cleaned up_ — his hair was still damp, and he hadn’t sorted out his beard at all. Miriam wouldn’t lie to him, though; she’d always been more reliable than a mirror.

“I guess this is the one, then,” he huffed, and sat down on his bed. The dogs weren’t allowed in here for the moment, and he could hear them scuffling in the hallway.

“That’s the one,” Miriam agreed. 

He grabbed the phone from where he’d balanced it and held it steady against his knee so that he could see her.

“How’s Chicago?”

“Good. Overwhelming. I got fitted with a new prosthetic last week.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s an experimental robotics thing. I’m a lab rat.”

“You’re too smart to be a lab rat. You’re doing them a favor.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” she said, and smiled a little. “What about you? Does the guru know about your date?”

“No, _Jack_ doesn’t know. I didn’t think…” 

He scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t really considered telling Jack about it. Gathering evidence had been at the back of his mind, stacked beneath mental file boxes that were gathering dust.

“You should tell him if you’re overwhelmed,” Miriam said, “or uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he replied. “I just… You know, if you were still here I think he would have you on this case.”

She scoffed. “I’m not a dancer. My cover would be blown as soon as they found out I have two left feet.”

“You were always gonna be a better agent than me, though.”

“I didn’t even finish training,” she said with a withered look.

“That wasn’t your fault. You have more experience, you’re better with people.”

“I’m sick of hearing you put yourself down, is what I am.”

“Sorry,” he huffed out a laugh. “Force of habit.”

“Well, drop the habit,” she said, and it felt like a warning. “How long until your date?”

“It’s not a—” he pressed on the screen to see the time—“shit. Two hours. I should probably get going.”

“Yes, you should,” she agreed through a laugh. “Don’t have too much fun.”

“I won’t,” he promised, and the dread rising in his throat made it feel more than true.

Hannibal’s house loomed, beautiful and intimidating, over the rest of Chandler Square. Will twisted a bottle of wine in his hands and considered getting right back into his car. He had never had a reason to come to this side of Baltimore before, and he remembered why. The big houses snubbed him. Their gaunt faces seemed to know that he didn't belong there.

His shirt felt strangely tight across his shoulders as he reached up to the knocker. It was a near garish shade of dusty salmon that he wouldn’t have picked for any other occasion. He shouldn’t have let Miriam talk him into it.

Hannibal’s eyes landed on it when he opened the door. Will hadn’t expected him to answer himself. He didn’t know what he’d expected. A butler, maybe. 

But Hannibal wasn’t Count Dracula. He smiled a slanted half-smile when his gaze met Will’s. 

“Will, thank you for being on time.”

He would have been early if he hadn’t dedicated fifteen minutes to freaking out in his car before leaving Wolf Trap, but he elected not to mention that. 

“Thanks for inviting me.”

Hannibal nodded modestly and stepped aside. 

“Come in.”

The foyer’s carpet felt too expensive under his feet. The dark pattern swirled under the warm light. Not from an overhead light, but from warm lamps mounted above a fireplace. It seemed to have been a while since it had been lit.

Soft breath fanned over the back of his neck. He bristled, just a little, and Hannibal’s hands came over his hunched shoulders. They hovered there, just so, like he would waft a hand before the nose of an unfamiliar dog.

“May I take your coat?”

Hannibal’s voice was little more than a rumble beneath the rush of blood in his ears. Will swallowed thickly, and nodded once.

His heart rammed against his ribcage so aggressively he was certain that Hannibal could feel it when he moved his hands down Will’s front to push his coat open and off. 

He stepped away to put the coat into the hallway closet. The air was cold in his wake. Will took a deep, freezing breath, and when he opened his eyes Hannibal was watching him.

“I hate to assume, but did you bring a gift?”

His eyes dropped to the bottle in Will’s hands. He was holding it almost at arm’s length, one hand around the neck and the other at the base. He didn’t need to move much to offer it out. Hannibal took it from him and studied the label.

Free of the weight at last, Will’s hands dropped to his sides. 

“I don’t know much about wine.”

“You chose well.” Hannibal gestured to another set of doors, which stood open. “Come. Would you prefer to greet everyone, or join me in the kitchen first?”

 _Everyone._ Will had to force his legs to keep moving under him, to not stop short and collapse from relief right there. This was an event, not a date.

He’d never been to a dinner party before. He didn’t know if it was better or worse than what he’d expected.

“Kitchen,” he said, delayed, “please.”

“Another appropriate choice.”

The hallway that threaded the house together was warmly lit by evenly placed brass sconces. He could hear distant music, the muffled chatter and clinking of glasses as the other guests settled themselves in a far-off room. Will wondered how deep the network of the house went, if he’d ever see all of it.

The kitchen sat deep in the belly of the house, and the line of Hannibal’s shoulders blended seamlessly with its clinical bluntness. He moved like a surgeon around an operating theater, as he easily placed the bottle of wine on the counter and tied a white apron around his waist. 

“Inspired by August Escoffier,” Hannibal explained, rounding the counter to a loaded chopping board. “Langue d’agneau en Papillote served with a sauce of duxelle and oyster mushrooms, picked myself. Do you cook, Will?”

Will nodded. “I had to learn when I moved out, but I’m more used to cooking for dogs than for people.”

“Your parents didn’t teach you?”

It was an innocuous question. It should have been. Will swallowed, a fizzing pain in this throat. 

“My mom cooked for me,” he said, quieter than he meant to be. He couldn’t force his voice any louder, “she liked to—”

_She liked to have control._

Hannibal regarded his sudden tenseness with a careful kind of curiosity. Not judging, just observing.

“The memories aren’t fond?”

That forced a winded laugh out of Will, although it sounded more like a pitiful sob. “You could say that.”

Hannibal nodded. “The kitchen is the beating heart of the home; memories made there should only be positive. I’m sorry that you were robbed of that.”

Will gaped in the face of his sincerity. Hannibal was looking right to the back of his head, through every memory etched there. Alarms blared in every corner, alerting him of the intrusion. 

“Have I made you uncomfortable, Will?”

Hannibal might have been a statue, objective and cool in his approach, yet his eyes narrowed a little. Amusement, maybe. Intrigue. Care. As obvious as an open wound. Will had never felt so _seen._

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he said.

“Good.”

Will cleared his throat. “Uh… where is everyone else?”

“The dining room, I should think.” He gestured behind Will. “Just through that door, if you would like to join them.”

“Ah”—Will glanced behind him, at the dark wood door that muffled the sounds of the party—“thank you.”

The dining room was just as grand as the rest of the house, teetering precariously into gothic. It was not as full as Will had been expecting, and he recognized most of the sparse guests as members of the company board members. None of them, he noticed idly, were dancers. Bedelia Du Maurier watched him from the table with a detached sort of curiosity, blatantly not listening to whatever Chilton was trying to tell her. 

He brushed one finger across the delicate leaves of an impressive living herb wall as he passed. They bounced back, as if brushed by the breeze.

“Beer?”

Alana had appeared at his shoulder, wielding two glasses and a brown glass bottle.

Will nodded. “Thanks.”

She just smiled, and handed him one of the glasses. Her movements were gracefully controlled, careful to pour just enough into his glass and twist the bottle to prevent any spilling from the mouth.

“You look good,” she said.

He took a sip of the beer. The red dress she wore hugged her figure perfectly, landing just above her knees. She’d swept all of her dark hair to one side, secured with a large dark green clip. Her hand came up occasionally to push her well-styled fringe away from her eye.

“You look better,” he said. “I’m not exactly, uh…”

“A socialite? Yeah, me neither.” She lifted her glass. “I’m more of a beer girl, really. Hannibal brews his own.”

Of course he did. 

“It’s nice that he doesn’t expect you to drink wine,” Will said, with a half-glance around the room, “everyone else seems to be.”

“Hannibal wouldn’t make you do anything he thought you weren’t up for.”

“Are we still talking about beer?”

She tipped her head forward. A little, self-conscious laugh into her glass. 

“Not like that. He was my mentor, so I know…”

She trailed off. Nowhere to go. He picked it up.

“You were a dancer?”

“I was, but I found that I liked helping people more. This world can be overwhelming, when you have to traverse it alone.”

“So you keep us company,” Will supposed.

“That’s the idea.” She smiled, and then glanced behind him. “Speaking of…”

A grey-suited woman approached them from the far side of the dining room, a glass of red wine balanced in her delicate hand. Though graceful, she lacked the distinct, measured walk of a dancer. She laid a hand on Alana’s shoulder, and Alana beamed.

“Will, this is my wife.”

“Margot,” the woman said. She had a gentle voice, lifting lightly on the first syllable and dipping on the second. Her manicured nails were neat and clipped, extended towards him in an invitation that he didn’t take. She blinked, re-evaluated, and moved her hand back to Alana’s shoulder. “I think it’s almost time to take our seats.” 

Elegant place cards assigned them each to a seat. Will started at the end of the table, studying the names written in that same looping script from the invitation, and found his at the other end, to the right hand side of _H. Lecter,_ seated at the head.

This couldn’t be right. He glanced up, and found Bedelia again, studying him with that same cold observance. She had been placed opposite him — on an even footing with the trainee, she was probably delighted. He took his seat, and she took hers as Hannibal swept into the room laden with dishes. 

He placed one plate in front of every guest, as calm and steady as a chef, and recounted his explanation. Will took a sip of his beer and tried not to feel smug that he had heard it first, that he was the only one who knew that the mushrooms were handpicked. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever eaten tongue before,” Alana said, a few seats down.

Hannibal paused, Bedelia’s plate halfway on the table, and joked, “It was a particularly chatty lamb.”

He placed his own plate on the table, and came behind Will. One hand carefully kept his own suit from brushing Will’s shoulder, but Will could feel his heat all up his back, his breath ruffling his curls, as he placed his plate down carefully. Span it, so that it was presented correctly, and stepped away.

“Romans would kill flamingos just to eat their tongues,” Chilton said, pulling the attention. It was as if he was trying to make Will suspicious of him, displaying a catalogue of typical narcissistic traits. 

Chilton’s eyes flicked to Hannibal, down to his plate, back to their host. Will sipped his wine. The performance was not for _him,_ of course. Everyone here was performing for someone, and a lot of them overlapped.

“Don’t give me ideas. Your tongue is very feisty.” Hannibal gestured to the table, popped the button of his blazer as he sat. “Bon appetit.”

With his blessing, the room burst with the scraping of cutlery. Quiet opera music. Appreciative hums and compliments to the chef. Will spent a long time poking his knife into the lamb tongue, testing its spongy consistency.

“I see you’ve added to the decor,” Bedelia said in her quiet, objective way.

Her gaze had settled on the chandelier hanging low over the table. It was a beautiful piece, a statement web of bone and light, intricately carved and twisted around one another.

“Do you disagree with my ethical choices, Bedelia?”

 _Bedelia._ Will was half-expecting her to bite at the use of her name, but she didn’t falter.

“You no longer have ethical problems, Hannibal,” she said. _Hannibal._ “You have aesthetical ones.”

No longer. There was some implication in that which Will wasn’t privy to. A silent understanding developed throughout years of friendship. Hannibal flipped his hand calmly.

“Ethics become aesthetics.”

Bedelia tilted her head, “You seem more concerned with making appearances than maintaining them.”

Her eyes flicked to Will, and then to her wine glass as she brought it to her mouth. Will didn’t look away.

It had been a long time since Will had been around this many people for this long. He ate slowly and exchanged a few easy words with the woman beside him — _Molly,_ the rehearsal director — about his last-minute entrance to the company. Chilton spoke boisterously about the production, how _Kenneth MacMillan was a genius, yes, but I think my interpretation is…_

Like a child at the zoo, Will watched the entire evening from behind a thick pane of glass. Molly tried her best, as did Alana, to involve him, but he was content to sit back and observe the air between them all. The way that they talked circles around each other, laid conversations out like defense strategies.

Hannibal was different. He did not seem to have any ulterior motive for the evening. He watched blithely as his guests entertained themselves, spoke when he was spoken to, didn’t flinch when Bedelia placed a hand over his when he said something she didn’t like. Will could feel her sizing him up, observing him as much as he was observing them.

When they hit the purgatory between the main and final course, Hannibal turned on Will courteously.

“Will, would you care to assist me with dessert?”

The low pitch of his voice sent a little, secretive thrill through Will’s stomach. He pushed it down with his hands on the table, and rose to his feet. A few curious eyes followed them to the kitchen, and Will was grateful for the chance to breathe behind its closed door. To relax his shoulders, just a little, away from Bedelia’s judgement.

“Another beer?” Hannibal asked.

“Yes, please. Alana said you brew it yourself?”

Hannibal moved to open the large, restaurant-grade refrigerator. 

“In a Cabernet Sauvignon wine barrel for two years. The bottles are blown locally.”

That didn’t mean anything to Will. Hannibal placed the beer on the counter, along with a ceramic dish of something that — upon further inspection — appeared to be gelatin. He took a sip from the bottle and tried to see if he could taste the difference — he couldn’t; beer was beer.

“Ms Du Maurier tells me that you were retired, before she beckoned you back.” Hannibal took a small pot of grapes out of the refrigerator, and set them next to the gelatin. “I hate to pry, but I am intrigued.”

Will took another sip of his beer and leaned back against the counter. Subconsciously obscuring most of his face from Hannibal's line of sight.

“I, uh — I found there wasn’t much space for people like me in the ballet world.”

Hannibal began to peel the grapes with a sharp, silver knife. He garnished the gelatin with their neat halves.

“What did you do in the meantime?”

Frivolous lies were the easiest way to blow his cover. He sipped his beer, evaluated exactly how much truth he could inject without exposing himself.

“Police academy," he answered, after a brief pause. "It didn’t take.”

“You didn’t take to it, or it didn’t take to you?”

“All of the above,” Will chuckled. That was true; he hadn't passed the first six months of police training. “My dad was a cop, so I guess I thought — I don’t know. I saw what they were doing, what they’d done as an institution. I felt guilty just being there.”

Too honest, maybe. He pressed two fingers to the center of his chest and felt his ribcage expand with his breath. Hannibal watched him, objectively.

“Did it make your father happy when you joined the academy?”

"I don’t know.” Will kept his voice objective, took an easy sip of his fancy beer. “He died when I was a kid. Maybe that’s why I did it.”

“Seeing if you could become him, though you barely knew him.”

Will stared, blanched. “Something like that, yeah.”

Hannibal hummed. His deft hands worked over the grapes with an absentminded precision. He cooked like he danced; comfortable yet sharp as a whip. Controlled yet dangerous. Companionable, yet Will had the odd feeling that the knife could be turned on him just as quickly.

“I love Norton grapes,” Hannibal said. “They are the same color inside as outside. Peel it, and the flesh is also purple, not like other grapes where flesh is white and color comes from the skin.”

The blade glinted in the light when he held it, flat side-up, between them. Half a grape lay on its surface, the flesh as dark as the skin. Glistening.

“A grape with nothing to hide,” Will said.

Hannibal held it out a little more pointedly, and Will realized what he meant. The glass bottle made a small, light clinking noise against the granite counter when he placed it down and plucked the grape from the blade. It exploded, sweet and ripe, on his tongue, and he felt a drop of wetness roll on his lip.

He moved as if to lick it away, but Hannibal brought a hand up to stop him. 

In slow, measured inches, he moved his hand up and pressed the pad of his thumb to Will’s bottom lip. Will froze. It _hurt._ The skin beneath his thumb, beneath the curl of his index below his chin burned. Chafed. Will couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. 

One moment he was there, stock-still, hand on mouth on hand on mouth, and the next, he was across the kitchen. Nearly at the door.

His heart pounded in the base of his throat, tearing breaths out of him. Hannibal took a step around the island. Will raised his hand between them, and he stopped. His hand shook. He had to get _out._

“I—” he choked. 

He turned into the hallway. Let his feet carry him past the dark wood and ambient lighting to the entrance. Hannibal’s footfalls followed him. He couldn’t turn around to check. He couldn’t stop moving. He wrenched open the door. Out out _out._

The cold Baltimore night air hit him, and he remembered his jacket. Absently, distantly, like the thought had come from somebody else. 

When he turned, Hannibal was already holding his jacket out. He was careful not to touch him when he handed it over. Something seemed to be poised on his tongue, but Will was out of the door before he could speak. He didn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m the leader of the miriam lass + will graham best friend squad. 
> 
> next few updates might hit you a little slower, sorry friends!


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